My word
Nothing
Is yet elastic
To snap at
The suggestion
Of survival
Which pits
Something
Against some
Thing
In order to
Gain some
Kind
Of traction
Laid out
As in
The penal colony
Waiting for
The other
Stylus
To drop
A declaration
Of interdependence
Your words
Taste like
Cardboard
In my mouth
Let me adjust
Your confession
Until they sweetly
Bleed
For your fits
Part in mine
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
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